


The Stopped Clock

by Jay_Lark (Robin_Knight)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Biphobia, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Breakdown, parental abandonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Knight/pseuds/Jay_Lark
Summary: Ben survived, barely.Peter struggled every day with the nightmares and guilt, desperate to make amends and protect his uncle. He swore no one would be hurt again. It would be easy with Wade by his side, and May and Ben for support, but something was missing . . . something made it hard to go on, even when he strove to be strong. Then - one day - it happened.His parents returned.(Discontinued)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wishblood](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Wishblood).



> I did have plans to further this, once I'd finished my main works, but . . . 
> 
> After "Deadpool 2", I'm officially done with "Deadpool". 
> 
> I appreciate people love the movie, but I feel the fandom and myself have diverged too much to reconcile, and - while I am glad other fans still are so passionate - it's difficult to write and work with people when you're so fundamentally different in opinions and expectations, and I don't think this fanfiction would be as well-received today. Apologies for any inconvenience.

_‘Uncle Ben?’_

_The blood was warm. It ran between his fingers; the liquid trickled out from the wound, staining the clothes and spreading out against the shirt. There was a large red patch. It looked black in the night, as if death seeped into the life essence, and it amazed him how quickly the blood cooled. The smell of iron pervaded the air. The wound pulsed against his hands, almost alive and ever weeping against his skin. It wouldn’t stop._

_Peter wept, unable to hold back his pain. The streetlights blurred above, distorted by his tears, and the voices around him sounded a cacophony of noise. His heart raced in his ears. The heavy thump hurt his chest. There was movement around him, while hands grasped at his arms, and soon – through pain and deep body aches – those hands yanked him away and pushed him back. He knew his arms were bruised. He struggled to get back to the body that lay lifeless upon the floor. People knelt beside his uncle._

_‘No. No, no, no -’_

_There was a flash of lights. The world spun; Peter felt himself pressed into somewhere bright, sat down with two men either side of him, and someone held his wrist while another flashed a light into his eyes. The blood dried on his hands. It cracked and stuck with an uncomfortable sensation. He struggled to breathe. The air came in large huffs, but it provided no relief and no benefit. The body gave a groan, taking his attention, and a burst of adrenaline coursed through him. He daren’t dream to hope._

_‘Is – Is he – Is he g-going to -?’_

_Peter felt the world blur. The lights flashed in and out, while the crowd dispersed. There was a space around the body . . . a groan . . . someone called out that they found a pulse. Peter looked onward; the body took a breath, a sign that there was still life, and soon the body became a man and that man became his uncle. Ben still had a chance. Peter leaned forward and clasped his hands to his face. He laughed uncontrollably, as he wept._

_‘Uncle Ben. Please – P-Please just –’_

“Peter? Son? Wake up.”

‘Please, don’t –’

Peter woke with a start.

He gasped for breath. There was a cold sweat over his body, so that his t-shirt and boxers clung to his flesh, and he felt the uncomfortable and sticky material move with every breath he took, as if it moulded itself into a second-skin. The sheets beneath him were wrinkled and tangled about his legs, while his eyes struggled to focus on his surroundings. It was cold. The bedroom was chilled by the winter weather. Ice cast patterns upon the pane of the window.

Peter slowly regained control of his breath. The racing of his heart became a moderate patter of sound, while his dry mouth soon regained some moisture, and – as he collapsed back upon the misshapen pillow – he saw his uncle beside him. It was a reassuring sight; the older man wore a smile that made the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle, adding depth that came only with age and with life, and the stubble on his chin moved with the upturning of those lips. He wore a flush to his cheeks that indicated life. _Life_. Peter laughed through the silence.

The bedroom was as messy as ever, so that Ben was forced to half-kneel upon a stack of chemistry textbooks to lean over Peter. A wrinkled hand – callused and rough – touched his forehead and then pressed upon his neck, as it checked for a fever or any swelling, and soon it pulled back with a loud sigh. Peter closed his eyes, as the darkness overcame him. The lights were still off, so only the glow-in-the-dark stars provided some reassurance.

“Still getting those bad dreams, son?” Ben asked.

Peter gave a short and harsh hum. He opened his eyes to see the stars on the ceiling, while – just opposite him – he saw the poster of Einstein upon his door. The bedroom was small and cramped, with hardly any room to study or even just relax, but it was as much as his aunt and uncle could afford in this harsh economy. It didn’t help that everywhere was lined with books and technology, so that one misplaced step could end up with a barefoot being cut to shreds, while his clothes remained strewn about random surfaces. Peter muttered:

“It – It only happens when I’m stressed.”

“Aw, come now,” said Ben with a gentle tone. “What do you got to be stressed about? You’re about to have graduated top o’ your class, even got a scholarship already! Just a few months and you’ll be in college and living your life . . . ‘bout time you got your own place, too, eh?”

“If I move out, Uncle Ben, who’ll look after you and Aunt May?”

“I think we’re old enough to look after ourselves.”

The smile on Ben’s lips was bright and wide. It revealed the hints of two canine teeth, slightly yellowed by age and a lack of appropriate dental care, and yet he looked better than Peter had seen him in the past three years. The cane beside him stood on four small legs for balance, with a large rubber handle on top, and – from what he heard through his wall some nights – the wound to his hip did little to stop his uncle from enjoying a wide range of activities. Peter blushed and struggled to sit upright.

He punched at the pillow and put it behind his back, as he leaned against the wall with a long yawn and a scratch to his head. The feel of his brown locks – somewhat greasy and mussed – reminded him to shower come morning, while the taste of bad breath also served as a reminder to avoid late-night snacks during very late study sessions. Peter ran a hand over his face and looked to his uncle, who moved to perch himself on the side of the mattress.

“I worry about you, Uncle Ben.”

“I noticed,” said Ben. “Hard to miss the nightmares.”

“It’s just – even if I _did_ move out – I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Peter bit his lip and gave a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know . . . I love Wade, but we’ve only been dating a few months. Isn’t it a bit soon to move in together? Plus, he lives like a pig. I was afraid to sit down in his apartment when I last visited. It’s . . . filthy.”

“Hey now!” Ben raised a finger and narrowed his eyes. “I love Wade, too. He’s a good man, makes you feel better and makes you lighten up, just like you make him more grown up and help him see straight, but I’m not having you two move in just yet, okay? It’s far too soon for that, Peter. You just go out and get yourself an apartment or stay in a dorm, you hear? In a few years – once you graduate – _then_ you two can move in together. That’s just that.”

Peter gave a small laugh. He looked over to his vision-board, where photographs of his loved ones littered the surface, and – even through the darkness – he saw Gwen clear as light. The five months after her death were the most agonising of his life, so much so that the photograph of Wade beside her almost felt like a dream. MJ had taken the photograph of the two of them just outside the school gates, after Wade had chased him down out of costume, and from there things had advanced at an almost phenomenal speed.

There were photographs of Peter sleeping, taken during his naps between study sessions, along with photographs of him and Wade on various dates, and – taken without Wade’s realisation – even a clear shot of his boyfriend’s face taken at Avenger’s Tower. He frowned and looked away, as he felt Gwen’s eyes staring at him from the shiny film of the photograph pinned upon the board. The memories were all too real.

A hair ribbon was taped next to a taco wrapper, while a ticket stub for a play sat next to a receipt for the latest horror film, and – as mementos of his two loves lay side-by-side – he swallowed hard and fought back memories of his nightmare. The shirt that Ben wore was pulled up at the side; it revealed a nasty scar across the side of his torso, which was raised and stark white, and it served as a reminder of how easily life could be stolen away. Peter threw back his head and blinked away oncoming tears. He said in a soft whisper:

“I think I’d still rather stay here.”

Ben gave a soft exhale of breath. It hissed through his nose, while he tapped the side of the mattress a few times with the palm of his hand. The silence passed by until Ben decided to make the first move towards communication; he reached out for Peter’s hand, taking a hold of it in both of his, and – as he slapped lightly upon the pale skin – he drew in a deep breath and gave a strained smile. Peter squeezed back, reassuring himself that his uncle was still with him, and smiled in turn despite the need to wipe away a falling tear.

“You know, most kids are desperate t’ move out,” muttered Ben.

“Well, I guess you guys just made things too comfortable.” Peter teased with a laugh. “Seriously, though, I just want to thank you for being there for me. Every time I get these nightmares . . . well . . . I remember how I went off-the-walls when you were shot, but I keep thinking about how I would have been if you’d actually died and –”

“– and that’s another time and place.” Ben slapped his hand in a light manner. “You can’t think about what could have been, Peter. The truth is that the world presents infinite choices and infinite temptations, and – yes – sometimes things will go badly . . . sometimes _we’ll_ do badly . . . what matters in life is how we react to the things around us. Life’s been hard on you, Peter, but I _promise you_ that you can still make it better.”

“I – I know. Wade’s been trying to help me deal with my guilt, too, telling me that punishment needs to be proportionate to the crime and I’ve more than paid enough, but . . . you’ve always taught me with great power comes great responsibility. I lost my parents, Gwen, Harry . . . I nearly lost you . . . I just feel I should be doing _more_.”

“Son, you keep trying to do more and you’ll be buried by your responsibilities.” Ben sighed and lifted his hand to nudge Peter’s chin. “Part of being responsible is knowing to look after yourself, _because_ people need you and _because_ we worry about you.”

“Don’t take on more than I can bear?”

Ben laughed and struggled to stand. He patted down his trousers, before he took a shaky hold of the walking cane and tried to step back. The mess in Peter’s room made it difficult for him to navigate a safe route, which served as a reminder to tidy and clean the next day, but he soon managed to find a safe spot. Peter admired his uncle’s smile and positive nature, but his hunched back and lack of balance betrayed a deeper pain. Ben chirped:

“You got it, kiddo.”

They remained in silence. Peter smiled back, as he looked up at the ceiling. The stars were laid out in the shape of constellations, much as they would appear on a winter sky on a clear night, and he remembered the hours spent as a child sticking them high with his uncle holding him up with ease. May had stood on the side, occasionally fretting that Peter would be dropped or pointing out mistakes with a constellation book in hand, and Peter knew he would cherish those memories until the day he died. He loved them.

“Thanks for the wake-up call,” said Peter.

“Ah, well, I didn’t come in here to wake you up.” Ben slapped a hand upon his legs with a casual gesture. “It turns out you had a visitor tonight. They took a wrong turn and climbed in through the wrong window, gave your aunt a heck of a fright. I had a few strong words with him, but I _don’t_ want him sneaking back in, so –”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let Wade in this late,” promised Peter. “If he knocks on my window, I’ll tell him to come back around breakfast. I’m not going to break house rules. I – er – might break curfew, though, if that’s okay? I won’t be able to sleep and –”

“You can lie down quietly, then. No going out.”

“No going out, right. Gotcha.”

Ben raised an eyebrow at Peter. The teenager blushed and slid down in his bed, where he pulled his pillow with him, and – as Ben walked quietly over to the door, with only little sounds of his cane hitting the carpeted floor – Peter continued to stare up at the ceiling. Ben stopped in the doorway, where he turned with a half-smile and quirked eyebrow to watch his nephew, almost as if he didn’t quite trust him not to sneak out. He gave a low hum.

There was a noise outside, as if someone was wandering in the garden. Peter could make out heavy footsteps and rustles within his aunt’s flowerbeds, along with occasionally vocal noises and the sound of objects being moved, and – as tempted as Peter was to look out the window – he simply rolled onto his side and looked to his uncle. Peter pulled the sheets up to his chin, covering his body and keeping him warm, but the sweat cooled upon his body and left him sticky and far too cold. He shivered and blinked away the sleep.

Ben stood in silence, until he checked his watch and gave a heavy sigh. Peter closed his eyes and took in the various sounds; his uncle – perhaps from his encroaching old age – breathed in a heavy manner, so every intake of breath was almost like a whistle, and he would occasionally run a hand through silver and thinning hair with a groan. They were sounds that comforted Peter; he smiled to himself and buried his head into his pillow.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Peter?”

“No, but I will be, Uncle Ben.” Peter opened his eyes with a yawn. “I just – I just don’t want to go back to sleep, you know? If it’s not you then it’s Gwen, and I – I _know_ she wouldn’t mind that I’m with Wade now, but . . . sometimes it kind of feels like I’m cheating on her, which is crazy, because she’s _gone_ and I _love_ Wade – I love him! I just . . . I don’t know . . . I wonder if I deserve to be happy, plus I keeps seeing her in my dreams.”

“Peter, I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone, not like that, but I do know what it’s like to grieve and mourn for someone you love. Gwen will always be with you. Always. She’s in every dream, every memory, and every action . . . so long as you live, her memory will live with you, so just keep on living. Promise me you won’t stop living.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself.”

“No, but depression can make it so you’re the walking dead.” Ben pointed his cane at Peter and shook it about. “I know you, kiddo. You dwell on stuff; you give up the things you enjoy, you isolate yourself from your friends, and you deny yourself even the small pleasures. That’s not living, Peter, and that’s not what she’d want for you. Wade’s right: you’ve punished yourself enough. Even in your sleep, you’re punishing yourself.”

The tears threatened to rise once more. They burned at brown eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision, and Peter clenched his hands deep into the sheets, where he tried to fight off the urge to check the skin for lingering blood. He could feel how heavy and cold Gwen felt as he caught her, just as he could feel Ben’s blood upon his flesh, and he could see – with an uncanny clarity – the final expression upon Harry’s face. The memories felt almost a worse punishment than anything he could inflict upon himself. He felt his lip tremble.

“I just get scared to close my eyes.” Peter laughed through his tears. “It’s easy to sleep during the day, but at night – when everything’s dark and quiet – I keep _thinking_ and the thoughts won’t stop. I sleep better when I lean against Aunt May or when Wade holds me, but I can’t spend every night sleeping beside someone else, can I? I’m just so tired.”

“Okay, Peter, I’m going to do you a favour,” said Ben with a muttered curse. “I’m going to go to bed, but I’m going to be fast asleep . . . that means I won’t hear if Wade comes into your room. If he helps you sleep, he helps you sleep. Just _no_ hanky-panky, alright?”

“You know, that’d probably help me sleep, too.”

Ben groaned and picked a book. It was a light novel on the desk beside the door, a thin paperback that barely weighed enough to notice, and – with a careful throw – Ben tossed the book in his nephew’s direction, as an empty threat. Peter caught the book with soft laughter. The smile on Ben’s lips betrayed his playfulness, but the shake of his head betrayed his frustration and exhaustion. He looked to Peter and raised a finger in warning. Peter pressed his lips together and rubbed at his mouth, as he tried to hold back his laughter. Ben warned:

“You two just behave, you hear?”

“Thanks, Uncle Ben.”


	2. Chapter 2

### Chapter Two

Peter blinked away the sleep.

The lounge was bright and his eyes struggled to adjust. There were bright specks in his vision, as he fought away the after-images of the lights above, and the room was a strange blur of colour and movement for a few long seconds. The fire roared in the corner, where Ben knelt before it and poked and prodded with a series of expert movements that came natural to him. Peter smiled and admired the flickering lights.

He yawned and stretched out, only to hear a slight chuckle. Peter looked up with brown eyes to see a face above him; the skin was cracked and scarred, made worse by the grand smile that reopened the sores at the corners of his mouth, but ultimately it was a beautiful sight. Peter smiled and reached up to touch that flushed cheek, only to feel Wade nuzzle against his hand and hold it in turn, and – as they looked into each others eyes – the silence between them was broken by a song sang by May from within the kitchen.

Peter blushed, broken away from the intimacy.

He sat upright beside Wade; the sofa was large enough for three grown men, but he still found himself so close that their upper legs touched and their lower legs intertwined, and – despite his hands clenched upon his thighs, nervous at having showed such intimacy in the living room – an arm came around his shoulders. Peter was pulled against a strong and muscular chest, clad in a red hooded top that was drawn up to cast that face in partial shadow, and he leaned against his lover with half-closed eyes and a gnawed lip. He asked:

“I fell asleep downstairs again, huh?”

There was a scoff from Ben, who shook his head and struggled to stand. Peter watched him from beneath a mop of messy hair, too embarrassed to look directly at him and too comfortable to move away from Wade, and saw his uncle run a hand through grey locks and shake his head with a soft smile. The old man wagged a finger at him and opened his mouth to speak, before wafting a hand at him and muttering something suspiciously close to ‘forget it’, as he wandered into the open kitchen with laughter just under his breath.

May gave a cry of surprise. Peter looked over to see her give a playful slap to Ben’s arm, as he laughed and pulled her into a warm embrace, and – just as he looked away – he caught sight of what looked like a kiss. He groaned and nuzzled against Wade’s neck, as he tried to avoid seeing his parental figures locked together, but he felt his the shakes of his boyfriend’s chest, as he barely constrained his laughter. Peter muttered:

“You know that’s totally gross?”

“Nah, that ain’t gross,” whispered Wade. “You want gross? I totally walked in on them once. I climbed through the wrong window and caught an eye of more folds and creases than a holiday special of Playboy! It’s kind o’ romantic in a way, right? Like, even when your butts sagging more than your babe’s boobs, you still want t’ tap that over all else.”

“Okay, you’re just being disgusting.” Peter laughed and gave a playful slap. “When we get that old, we can just stick to ‘lights off’ as the default. I want to always be my best for you, even if that’s just a memory of my younger years. You’re never seeing this saggy butt.”

“Hey, I’ll still be able to _feel_ it all jiggling and stuff!”

“Oh, gee, thanks. Now it’ll be jiggling?”

Peter laughed as Wade stood up. The older man kept his back to Peter, while he hitched up his loose jeans and held them tight about his waist, before he moved each buttock up and down independently of one another, while singing ‘jiggle’ in a continuous rhythm. It was difficult to control his humour any longer, especially after so much heartbreak and grief, and Peter – as he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks – bent forward and clutched his sides.

“What’s so funny?” May called.

Wade swore, as he raised his hands in mock surrender. The older man – looking still in his prime for a man in his late thirties – spun around and lost his balance, as he tripped over the coffee table that lay parallel to the leather sofa. He fell backwards with a large crash of sound, before he landed on his back and looked up at the ceiling with a pout upon his lips and blue eyes narrowed into almost dangerous slits. Lower legs rested on the table.

It did little to help the laughter. Peter laughed until he could barely breathe, now in physical pain as he fell onto his side and stared with blurred eyes at his boyfriend, and – as eyes stung with tears – he could about make out the hazy figure of May. The older woman stood in the archway between the two rooms with one hand on her hip and a rolling pin in her free hand, so that she looked almost a walking stereotype of the fifties housewife. There was even a smattering of flour across her blue apron, as she frowned and shook her head.

“Nothing,” lied Peter.

“I was just – er – talking to Petey,” shouted Wade from the floor. “I got the number of a good therapist from Preston, by the way! You know -? Because of the nightmares and stuff? It’s the one we send Ellie! My Ellie loves her, but – eh – comes with downsides . . . kid’s started calling me ‘Wade’, which I can’t say doesn’t hurt, but what can you do, right?”

“I’m – I’m doing a lot better, Aunt May, I swear. It’s just . . . I mean . . . I was asked to be valedictorian, only I came across Gwen’s speech on my computer, it – it was so _hopeful_. It’s like she saw this whole future ahead of her, only for it to be ripped away, and I – I just can’t get it out of my head. I’m . . . I’m _seeing_ Captain Stacy everywhere. I – I – I was walking by this – this truck and I – I saw him _driving_ it, only he’s – he’s –”

Peter rolled onto his back and brought his hands to his face. He tented them above nose and lips, desperate to draw in slow and controlled breaths, while he listened to Wade curse and fidget and struggle to get to his feet. There was a rich scent of cinnamon from the kitchen, likely the various sweets and pastries baking as a test-run for graduation, and he felt his mouth water along with his eyes, as he remember how much Harry loved his aunt’s cooking or how Gwen would laugh alongside his aunt in the kitchen. He swallowed hard.

Wade grumbled, as May raised a hand to signal to him. Peter blinked rapidly, as he fought away tears and tried to stay calm, but – as his heart raced and a cold sweat broke over his skin – he heard footsteps march over to him in a quick and firm beat. A soft and cool hand pressed against his forehead, while a shadow cast over his face and shoulders. He turned onto his side to see May perched on the edge of the table, where she wiped her hands with a tea towel.

“Well, you don’t feel sick,” said May.

Peter pulled himself backward. He rested his legs upon the soft cushions, while he leaned against the arm, and – as he made to sit upright – Wade jumped over the coffee table and grabbed a cushion from the nearby armchair. The cushion was placed behind Peter’s back, before he found time to comprehend the quick movement, and then smiled as Wade sat at the opposite end of the sofa and lifted socked feet onto his lap. Those callused hands began to rub circles at his feet, as Peter smiled and felt his heart swell. He turned to his aunt and said:

“I – I don’t think I’m sick.”

“It’s just in his head, Miss May,” muttered Wade. “Like, I know how bad it gets. It got to the point where I didn’t know what was real and what was bull- . . . er, bull-oney . . . baloney! I was putting on this happy face and joking around, all because I couldn’t face people seeing me cry or scream or hurt myself. It was easier to play the fool. I didn’t have to face the truth then, which was that I was destroying myself from the inside out.”

“I think – I think that may be what this is.” Peter ran his hands through his hair. “I feel so grateful to have you and Uncle Ben and Wade in my life, but there’s also this constant pressure . . . like if I let go of control – even just for a second – I’ll lose someone else or I’ll dishonour their memory. I try to stay cheerful, as I don’t want to bring anyone down, but –”

“Now hang on there, Peter,” chirped Aunt May.

May reached out to Peter. A cool hand took a hold of his chin, turning his head just enough so that watering eyes could look upon her face. Those lips were pulled into a warm smile, which brought wrinkles to her cheeks and eyes, and brown hair – streaked with grey – was pulled messily back in a style shown to her by Gwen. He thought about the night where he forgot to pick her up after work, how that led to nearly losing Ben, and he thought about how much he loved them. They were like parents to him. May said in a low and slow voice:

“You don’t have to be strong for us.”

“I know, but I just –”

“No, it’s _our_ job to be strong for _you_ ,” said May in a firm voice. “We made a promise to always protect you, Peter. You came into our home as a boy, but we’ve seen you grow to become a responsible and mature man. I will always be proud of your desire to help others, _always_ , but part of protecting other people is learning to protect yourself. If you’re injured or worse, who do you think will protect us then? Look after yourself, Peter.

“If you can’t do that, that’s fine. Like I said, it’s our job to be strong for you and we’ll always support you when you can’t support yourself. I’m going to whip you up your favourite for lunch, wheat-cakes with maple syrup, and then we’re going to take you to the counsellor Wade recommended. After that . . . well . . . what about a day out together?”

“Hey, that sounds like a good idea,” chirped Wade. “You and Miss May can go see a movie and have dinner and go for a walk in the park, meanwhile I can help Uncle Ben do those chores you keep putting off! Got to earn my keep for all Miss May’s food, right?”

“How many times have I told you that it’s _Aunt_ May, Wade?”

“Nah, can’t call you that. Ain’t respectful enough.”

Peter laughed, as May gave a light slap with the end of the tea towel. It was a playful gesture, one in which Wade laughed off and lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat, before May shook her head and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Peter’s head. Those lips lingered, as she breathed deep the scent from his hair. He sometimes wondered whether she remembered him as the boy from all those years ago, unable to accept how the years had flown by, and – as she made to pull away – he reached up and took her hands in a gentle hold.

He pulled them to his lips and placed a chaste kiss to them, before he looked up and saw her with tears prickling the corners of his eyes, and – in the archway – Ben stood with arms folded and propped up against the wall. The older man watched with a soft expression, while his cane stood beside him ready to be used, and he seemed infinitely older in those brief moments, so far removed from the man he looked in old photographs.

“I love you guys,” said Peter.

Ben rolled his eyes, but the smile betrayed him. He walked back into the kitchen, ready to get back to helping in various chores, but – as he took a slow and limping step further inside – stopped to look back in the living room. Those brown eyes were so eerily like Peter’s that it was almost like looking into a mirror, and they lingered upon Peter with such patience that it felt as if Ben were memorising every aspect of him, before he walked away.

It felt good to be surrounded by family. Wade continued to rub at his feet, while May gave him another kiss and headed into the kitchen, and soon the home was filled with the sounds of life and love. Peter listened as Wade babbled a continuous stream of dialogue, talking about nothing and everything all at once, while his aunt sang an old nursery rhyme from his childhood over a hiss of steam from the oven, and Ben – pattering around with his cane – muttered complaints about the cold streak and broken radiators.

Peter was nearly lulled into a sleep, but a knock at the door awoke him. He looked to Wade, half-hoping he would answer the door for him, but he could see the self-consciousness in his boyfriend’s eyes and noticed how he instinctively pulled his hood forward to hide his face. Peter frowned. He swung his body around to plant feet upon the floor, as he nudged Wade with his shoulder and planted a kiss to his covered cheek.

“I’ll get it!” Peter called.

It sounded as if May and Ben hadn’t heard the door. Peter rolled his eyes and stood up onto his feet, a little embarrassed by the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, but anyone who came by on a Sunday tended to know what to expect. Steve usually attended charity events on Sundays, while Tony often nursed the hangover from the night before, and Coulson and Preston usually rang in advance whenever they needed to see Wade for any reason.

Peter headed over to the door; he paused at the pane of glass, where he saw a middle-aged man and woman just a little older than Tony and a few years younger than Ben, and they looked respectable enough. The woman wore a peach-coloured pantsuit, while the man was dressed in black trousers and a polo-necked jumper, but both wore serious expressions that lacked any sign of humour or vitality. Peter groaned, unwilling to deal with attempts to convert him on a day that was assigned to just family and friends.

“Uncle Ben, it’s for you!”

He finished his walk to the end of the hall. The door opened wide, as he scratched at the back of his neck and yawned wide enough to expose the back of his throat. He noticed how the woman made to step forward, a smile beginning to break on her previously stoic expression, but the man placed a hand upon her upper arm and shook his head. Peter raised an eyebrow and took a step back, feeling the cold draught rush through the open door and over bare skin.

“He’ll – er – be a minute,” said Peter. “Got a bum leg, you know?”

Peter only realised he was miming a limp too late; he blushed in embarrassment, before he stepped aside against the wall and ran a hand over his face, and then – in a moment of relief – Ben came around the corner with a small tool-case in hand. He was muttering aloud about which screwdriver would be the right fit, likely hoping for a response from Wade or Peter, but soon his eyes landed upon the couple. He froze. The tool-case fell to the ground.

The clatter of metal upon wood echoed through the silence. Ben took a shaky step forward, cane struggling to gain purchase upon the floor, as he reached out with trembling hand through the air in their direction. The man spread his arms, as if welcoming Ben in some way, while his mouth broke into a smile and tears prickled in his eyes, and – in immediate response to the sight – Ben walked as quickly as possible toward the man. In turn, the man ran to him with open arms. They embraced through a barrage of tears.

“It’s – It’s you,” muttered Ben. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered the man. “I’m so sorry, I should have come sooner.”

Peter bit his lip and looked at the room behind; May stood beside the sofa, where Wade sat with arms folded upon the back and eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, and the woman on the porch – now with hands raised before her mouth – burst into tears and stepped inside. It confused Peter. He furrowed his brow and looked around the hallway and living room, desperate to try and find some form of explanation. He raised his hands behind his head, where he clasped them and spun around in a lazy manner to try and process everything.

“Er, anyone want to tell me who these guys are?”

Ben stepped back. The wrinkled face was flushed red, while his lips trembled and wet trails stained his cheeks, and – as he turned to face Peter – he kept a hand upon the man’s back and slapped him a few times in a brotherly manner, before he grasped a firm shoulder. They shared a strange look, as each man allowed his eyes to roam the other, before there came a burst of laughter and tears and a few more slaps to the back.

They stopped only when May gasped; the older woman ran to Peter’s side, where she looked at the two strangers and quickly embraced the man with tears in turn. Peter felt a sense of dread. He could see the resemblance in their features; the messy and impossible to tame hair of the woman, along with the brown eyes complete with freckles in the iris of the man, and he knew his aunt and uncle wouldn’t be so intimate with just any stranger. Peter stumbled back, as Ben looked to him and said in a voice shaking with emotion:

“They’re your parents, Peter.”

Peter’s blood ran cold.


	3. Chapter 3

### Chapter Three

The silence lingered.

Peter sat across from his parents. They sat side-by-side with solemn expressions; Mary was the most animate by far, so that her cheeks would flush and her lips would pull into an awkward smile, and those eyes – so bright and green, so unlike his own – would stare at him with a fixation that bordered on painful. He only needed to twitch for her eyes to widen and her hand to jolt, as if fighting an urge to run to him. Peter bit his lip until he tasted blood.

The taste of iron swam on his tongue, as his heart raced within his chest. He sat on the floor between Wade’s legs, relishing how those strong and callused hands rubbed patterns upon his shoulders, and – each time he felt his eyes water – fingertips would press into deep knots and provide a constant reassurance of support. There was a rich scent of medicated cream upon Wade’s skin, something that grounded him and kept him focussed. Peter looked with blurred eyes to his left, where Ben sat in an armchair with tented fingers between his legs.

Peter listened to the fire crackle. He concentrated on the scent of the cream, the noise of the fire, and the movements of May as she darted back and forth. There was a tray balanced on her hand; the contents rattled with the tremble of her fingers, as she struggled to keep her eyes upon the task at hand, and – whenever it was safe to look – she would glance over to the man and woman perched upon the sofa. May forced a smile and came into the room.

“I – I thought some tea might calm everyone down.”

The tea spilled over the rims of the cups; May apologised with a shake to her smile, while she placed the tray onto the coffee table and mopped up the spill with a napkin. Peter drew in a staggered breath; he looked up at his aunt, where he saw her look to him with a soft expression and a gentle wave of her hand. The older woman wandered over to the second chair, where she sat upon the arm with graceful movements. Ben leaned forward, so he could place a warm hand upon her back, and – at the touch – she looked at him with a small tear.

No one reached for the tea. The silence continued, until Richard cleared his throat and looked around the room with a twitch of his head and fidgeting fingers upon his lap. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile at the many photographs; one wall essentially served as a chronicle of Peter’s life, while another was marked with a beautiful pattern of framed memories, each one a poignant part of their life as a family. Richard observed:

“We missed so much, haven’t we?”

“You didn’t have to miss any of it,” muttered Peter.

“Peter,” gasped May. “You don’t mean that.”

Peter shrugged. He wrapped his arms around his legs; he hugged them tightly to his chest, where he looked down at his socked feet and focussed upon a stray thread, and – as much as he knew his aunt meant well – he felt a stab of pain within his chest. Wade pressed a little too firmly into his shoulder, forcing him to sit upright and lean his head back to look up at the face of his boyfriend, who shrugged and gave a strange smile. A soft kiss was pressed to his forehead, as Wade leaned down and chuckled to himself. Peter felt a tear roll down his cheek.

“So – ah – are you back to stay?” Ben asked.

“We wanted to come back sooner,” said Mary in a low voice. “We returned to the States once we heard about Gwen’s passing, but we saw Peter there . . . at the grave, crying and on his knees . . . and – well – we just couldn’t bring ourselves to go over at that time. It was such an intimate moment, such a private trauma . . . I felt like we would be intruding . . .”

“W-W-What – What about all the – t-t-the times before that?” Peter wiped the tears from his cheek and began to hyperventilate. “W-What about my first science fair? What about my first sleepover at Harry’s? What about my prom? What about when Ben was shot or – or – or –”

“We didn’t know about any of those things.” Mary slid forward and angled her body to him. “I swear that we tried to keep updated as much as possible, but we were in absolute hiding and we only dared come out once the threat of Oscorp’s retaliation was removed. We tried following you on social media, but your accounts were all private. We tried watching you from afar, but you stopped going out except to see the graves. We – We tried, Peter.”

Peter bit his tongue, as he gave a muffled laugh. He wanted to scream at them that they hadn’t tried hard enough, but the words fell dead on his tongue, and instead he could only bury his head between his knees and squeeze shut his eyes until he saw stars. Wade pressed his legs a little closer together, boxing Peter in and providing some pressure, while those large hands gripped harder upon his shoulders, and – rather than feeling claustrophobic – he felt safe and encased. Peter let out a shuddered breath and said:

“You – You could have taken me with you.”

He looked into the eyes of his father. It was strange to see how their eyes were so identical, almost as if looking into a mirror, and he could see the lines of age at the corners and the slight dilation to the pupil. The older man pushed at the bridge of his glasses, so that they sat properly upon his nose, before he shook his head with a heavy exhale of breath. Peter felt his heart race heavily in his chest, until he could hear nothing but his racing heart. Richard said:

“That’s no life for a child.”

“But being an _orphan_ is a totally fine life?”

“You had your aunt and uncle,” said Richard. “We knew you would be loved. You had an education here, Peter. You had school and friends and family, but what could we provide for you aside from constantly moving from place to place? You would never have had friends or a place to call ‘home’, just a series of temporary homes and shelters.”

“You could have arranged some communication! _Something_!”

“There was just too much risk, Peter.”

The silence returned. Peter listened to the honks of a car outside, while the fire crackled in the fireplace with a burning intensity, and he struggled to control his breathing or the movement of his hands. It terrified him, but he could feel them clench and close of their own accord. It was as if his fear had possessed his body, leaving him with a terrible sensation of cold water being poured over bare flesh, and he grew dizzy through his panic and pain. He looked up and choked on the air itself, as he asked in a trembling and broken voice:

“So your work was more important than me?”

“Nothing – I will repeat _nothing_ – was more important than you,” said Mary in a hushed voice. “Peter, if you want us to leave, you only need to give the word. I will love you until my dying day and with every breath I take, but the very last thing I want is to hurt you. We can always come back when you’re ready to talk, or just leave for good, but I needed you to know – _we_ needed you to know – that we never forgot you. Not once.”

“Do – Do you – Do you have any idea h-how hard it was to lose you?” Peter laughed through his tears. “It – It defined my entire life! I was _so scared_ that anyone I loved would leave me, because how could anyone love me when my _freaking parents_ thought I was so unlovable? You were able to just walk away. You just walked away and –”

“You ain’t unlovable, Petey,” spat Wade. “You just had shit parents. I only just rediscovered my Ellie a year or two back, but I know I’d walk over hot coals just to see her smile. I’d _die_ for her and I’d never fucking leave her, not even for a second. You don’t leave a kid. I walked away once, for like the whole of a minute, because I thought it’d be better for her to stay with her adopted parents, but I came back and not fourteen years later!”

Richard hissed a long exhale of breath. Those hands – aged with time, no longer as smooth or graceful as Peter remembered – tightened into two tight fists upon his knees. He sat straight, with his back perfectly aligned and his head held high, and looked over Peter and Wade with a narrowed gaze and lips pursed into a white line. Peter struggled to see him; his eyes were blurred with tears, already they stung with sweat from his forehead and the force of the tears themselves, and he sniffed awkwardly with his head pressed to his knees.

Wade slid down onto the floor; he pushed Peter forward a little too firmly, as he sought to make room to squeeze between the young man and the armchair, and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist with hands buried into Peter’s shirt for purchase. That hooded head leaned against the crook of Peter’s neck, while eyes narrowed dangerously upon Richard. Peter felt his lover’s heart race through his chest. Richard said in a cold voice:

“What right do you have to talk like that?”

There was a brief silence. Wade broke the quiet with a deep chuckle, which vibrated through Peter’s body, before he pressed a chaste kiss to Peter’s cheek. It was a strange question to have been asked; Peter thought back to their long friendship, which led to something greater during the grief of Gwen, and the sheer absence of his parents. Wade had every right to question them. Wade had spent more time with him in the previous week than they had in the entire decade, and yet – with a stab of guilt – Peter winced and closed tight his eyes.

“I’m Peter’s fucking boyfriend,” snarled Wade.

“You’re at least twenty years his senior,” said Richard in a cold voice. “You have a daughter? Then you can imagine how I feel coming back after all these years, only to find my son being taken advantage of by a grown man, and you can imagine why I don’t take kindly to you assuming that your situation is even remotely comparable to my own.”

“He – He’s right.” Peter ran his hands through his hair. “You – You just – You just met Ellie once as a baby, so you didn’t have a relationship with her, Wade. You made a mistake, but once you knew her . . . once she was firmly in your life . . . you never left her, because she was your little girl and you loved her. If – If they could walk away from a child they’d raised for four years, there – there has to be something wrong . . . wrong with me . . .”

“Peter, that isn’t why we –”

“If I were just a better kid, would they have stayed? Maybe it was because they wanted a daughter or because I was so awkward or just because I was too hard to look after . . . they knew me and my personality, but – but they – they still left and they didn’t feel a bond, but aren’t bonds meant to c-come natural? There was something wrong with me.”

“Peter, there was _nothing_ wrong with you. Nothing.” Richard raised a hand and pointed firmly in Peter’s direction. “We left you with May and Ben with the intention of coming back, I _swear_ this to you upon our lives. You know what happened with Oscorp; before we could reveal him, he found out we betrayed him and our lives were on the line. It was better the world think we were dead, because otherwise you were at risk.”

The room spun. Peter grew dizzy; it was difficult to focus, while the words spoken no longer made any sense, and – as he struggled to stand – he stumbled and was prevented from falling only by Wade’s quick reflexes. Two hands held onto his forearms, so that he could sway a little in one spot and come to his senses. There was a light-headed sensation. Peter pulled away from Wade, as he raised his hands to his temples. Wade climbed to his feet and raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, while Peter shook his head and mumbled:

“I – I’m supposed to graduate in a few weeks.”

He looked between May and Ben. They looked panicked, while May was at once on her feet, and he felt his heart race in response to the sight. He saw Wade take a step towards him, arms held wide as if to welcome a hug, but he could no longer breathe and everyone appeared a threat, so that irrational anxiety clouded his judgement. He shook his head over and over, muttering incoherently through his tears, as he fell back a few steps and cried out:

“I – I can’t do this, I’m sorry!”

“Peter?” May wiped her hands upon her apron with a nervous smile. “Why don’t we go upstairs? This is too much for me to process right now; I could do with someone to sit quietly beside and to hold my hand for a little while, and maybe Wade could join us? You two share the same sense of humour. I’d like for someone to make me laugh.”

“Yeah, Miss May has a point,” chirped Wade. “You don’t have to sit here and take this shit! They abandoned you once, so what’s to say they won’t do it again? I know what it’s like . . . had my mom walk out when I was born . . . you ain’t alone, Petey.”

“I – I just – I just – I just need to –”

Peter looked between May and Wade. He saw their concern, etched upon every line of their faces, but was unable to endure their love when his parents sat so close. Peter ran. He fled up the staircase with loud footsteps, until he was able to fling open his bedroom door and throw himself down upon his bed, and – as he buried his head into his pillow – he let out a pained scream muffled only by fabric and feathers. It was too much to bear.

He barely heard the creak of his door close behind him, but he did feel someone crawl into bed beside him and wrap their arms around him. Wade whispered to him. The words were half-formed and murmured, so that it was an incoherent blur, but – as he sobbed brokenly into his pillow – he found some comfort in the close quarters. There was a movement at the bottom of the bed, as someone sat down upon the mattress and put a cool hand to a socked foot. He relished in the touch, as he realised May say with them.

“Talk to us, Peter,” whispered May.

Peter drew in a staggered breath; he pulled himself into a sitting position, as he leaned back against the head of the bed, and – as he looked up to the stuck-on stars above – he smiled as Wade rested his head upon his lap. The intimacy made him smile, as he rested a hand upon his lover’s head with a gentle touch. Wade yawned and smiled. There was a small huff from May, who still had yet to grow used to their public displays of affection, and Peter blushed despite himself with a smile. He looked away with a shrug of his shoulders.

There was a great deal of noise from below. It was easy to pick up Ben’s voice, as it was heavy and deep and held the trace of an unmistakable accent, and yet Peter felt almost afraid to hear his uncle so blatantly angry and in the midst of an argument. A door slammed, followed by an awkward silence. Peter let out a long breath. He threw back his head and stroked patterns over Wade’s head, while he looked to May with a broken smile.

“You – You’ve been a mother to me, Aunt May.”

“That’s sweet of you, Peter.”

“I – I mean it.” Peter smiled through his tears. “I – I guess I always felt worthless, b-because they never wanted me . . . not really . . . you guys _chose_ to have me, though, so it was like – well, like – like I wasn’t totally irredeemable. If you could want me, when no one else did . . . I don’t know . . . I’ll always – _always_ – love you guys for that. Always.”

“Peter, as far as I’m concerned, you are _our_ son.” May gaze a squeeze upon his foot. “I used to curse God for never giving us a child, but then I realise _why_ he acted just as he did, because one day – when I lost all hope – he gave us _you_. We love you, Peter.”

“I love you, too, Aunt May. It just feels like an old scar’s reopened and –”

“You don’t have to explain it, Peter. I understand.”

They sat together in amicable silence. Wade hummed a strange tune, as he tapped a pattern upon Peter’s thigh, while May – as she lightly slapped her legs with a sigh – made about the room to tidy the items and fold the unfolded clothes. It was almost normal. Peter looked to his aunt and blinked away tears, unwilling to picture a life where he could have been with his parents and not with her and Ben. He felt his lip tremble as he begged:

“Don’t leave me, Aunt May?”

“Never,” promised May.

 

 

 


End file.
